Peis. [a bad joke, as a vent for irritation]—­
              They footed it, you mean—­
              Come; it was handily done though, I confess.

Mess.—­Indeed, I assure you, it was a sight to see them;
              And trains of ducks there were, clambering the ladders
              With their duck legs, like bricklayers’ ’prentices,
              All dapper and handy, with their little trowels.

Peis.—­In fact, then, it’s no use engaging foreigners;
              Mere folly and waste, we’ve all within ourselves. 
              Ah, well now, come!  But about the woodwork?  Heh! 
              Who were the carpenters?  Answer me that!

Mess.—­The woodpeckers, of course:  and there they were,
              Laboring upon the gates, driving and banging,
              With their hard hatchet-beaks, and such a din,
              Such a clatter, as they made, hammering and hacking,
              In a perpetual peal, pelting away
              Like shipwrights, hard at work in the arsenal. 
              And now their work is finished, gates and all,
              Staples and bolts, and bars and everything;
              The sentries at their posts; patrols appointed;
              The watchman in the barbican; the beacons
              Ready prepared for lighting; all their signals
              Arranged—­but I’ll step out, just for a moment,
              To wash my hands.  You’ll settle all the rest.

CHORUS OF WOMEN

From the ‘Thesmophoriazusae’:  Collins’s Translation

They’re always abusing the women,
As a terrible plague to men: 
They say we’re the root of all evil,
And repeat it again and again;
Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,
All mischief, be what it may! 
And pray, then, why do you marry us,
If we’re all the plagues you say? 
And why do you take such care of us,
And keep us so safe at home,
And are never easy a moment
If ever we chance to roam? 
When you ought to be thanking heaven
That your Plague is out of the way,
You all keep fussing and fretting—­
“Where is my Plague to-day?”
If a Plague peeps out of the window,
Up go the eyes of men;
If she hides, then they all keep staring
Until she looks out again.

CHORUS OF MYSTAE IN HADES

From ‘The Frogs’:  Frere’s Translation

CHORUS [shouting and singing’]

Iacchus!  Iacchus!  Ho!

Iacchus!  Iacchus!  Ho!

Xanthias—­There, master, there they are, the initiated
                 All sporting about as he told us we should find ’em. 
                 They’re singing in praise of Bacchus like Diagoras.

Bacchus—­Indeed, and so they are; but we’ll keep quiet
                Till we make them out a little more distinctly.

CHORUS [song]